Ben Roethlisberger, YouÂre the man in Pittsburgh. Women wielding cheese fries and Iron City Beer want fuck you in their front yards and guzzle your cum on camera as itÂs beamed to Times Square. Burly men are willing to suck your cock on the 50-yard-line of Heinz Field and hand over their wives because you just helped bring home the cityÂs first Vince Lombardi Trophy since January 1980.
YouÂve got it all and life is a never-ending buffet of magazine covers, endorsement deals, calendar models, cocaine, free cars and free ass. You have a fat contract, an All-Pro wide receiver, and a running back that is maybe the fastest man in the NFL to go along with a huge offensive line that literally dominates opposing defensive fronts.
To be honest, I had you pegged for 12 wins based on general principal and a bone-crushing defense.
But, Ben, this has just not been your year.
Just before training camp you had a motorcycle accident that almost kills you. YouÂre left missing your front teeth with a gash inside your mouth that severed a major artery almost causing you to bleed to death at an intersection. In the aftermath all of your buddies, coaches, teammates and bosses come to your bedside imploring you to wear a helmet, heal up and get healthy before you take the football field.
Then you got healthy enough to suit up and hit the practice field. No one can hit you of course because the plastic surgery on your face is still taking hold, but hey, youÂre there and zinging passes to your boys with no problem. EveryoneÂs pumped and your cock is hard for a game situation and your balls are primed to explode all over some defense still wrapping its head around a new scheme.
Well, the pre-season rolls along and even without your battering ram running bus-back that retired after the Super Bowl, you are looking great. YouÂre completing passes all over the field, avoiding pressure and showing some pretty damn good mobility. Everyone is raving about how good you look and how youÂre ready to carry your team like never before. Man, before you know it, straight men in Pittsburgh bars will be slobbering on your balls like never before.
Then, just before the season starts, you get hit with appendicitis and are rushed to the emergency room to have the offending vestigial organ removed. Now, this is a procedure that leaves most people on the mend in bed for four weeks minimum, but because you are a badass who rides HarleyÂs without a helmet and promises retiring running backs Super Bowl championships and has a $15,000 bridge in his mouth along with a turgid cock ready to penetrate every woman who lives along the Allegheny, youÂre back on the field in only two. Looking like Mark Malone on a four-day bender of shitty whiskey and Meister Brau.
A few weeks later, you got your ass handed to you in Atlanta when your head got driven into the artificial turf and left you resembling a drooling retard who should be wearing a Cooper hockey helmet when he leaves the house. Video of you on the sideline shows you appearing to have lost at least 40 IQ points and completely incapable of wiping your ass, much less running an NFL huddle.
However, even though you suffered a severe concussion – the result of a hit approximately 98-times the force of gravity – you take the field the following week in Oakland. I know what you were thinking because I was too. ÂThis is the Raiders. You could cart out Terry Bradshaw right now and line up Mean Joe Greene at tackle and the Steelers would STILL beat them by 20 points. Well, after tossing a couple interceptions earlier in the game, you literally shit the bed with a chance to tie when you missed a wide open man in the end zone waving his arm like a hooker in west Baltimore waving down a John in an Escalade.
Your team is 2-5, your body is just now recovering from your ill-timed surgical procedure to remove a dangling part of your intestines and your brain is trying to heal itself after being bounced around like Jell-O inside a concrete bowl.
Ben, we get it, youÂre tough. However, itÂs time to be frank and you need to sit. If Charlie Batch is looking like the better option, then it is time for you to take a little rest and properly recover from your myriad injuries because man, right now, you are David Klingler bad.
Frankly, I could give a fuck about your personal health. If you want to get yourself killed, thatÂs your decision. YouÂre a grown man who is only responsible for yourself. If your idea of fun and relaxation is to go out and get the shit beat of you in front of 70,000-people when your body is telling you otherwise, please do so. If it makes you happy, run with it, baby. However, there is something you must come to terms with while you entertain your desire to be an injured martyr: Unlike Steve McNair, Joe Namath, Troy Aikman and Steve Young, you canÂt win ballgames hurt.
Face it Ben, you suck donkey balls when youÂre hurt. YouÂre making Charlie Batch look good, and the last time he looked good, Barry Sanders was lined up behind him drawing the attention of no less than eight defenders per play. The only reason that guy is able to win right now is because defensive coordinators know he can at least recognize a blitz before the snap.
I wonder if you are able to even remember what fucking play you called in the huddle when you get to the line of scrimmage. Your throws are all over the place, youÂre out of synch with your receivers and in the pocket you look like Jim ÂChris Everett avoiding a phantom defensive end.
WhatÂs worse is that you are costing me money and the fans of Pittsburgh hours of sleep. You got buttfucked on national television in Jacksonville; you shit your pants against Cincinnati, got kicked around like a kid with lupus in San Diego and got bitch-slapped in Oakland?
Oakland! You just lost to fucking Oakland! Look, your leather-daddy Bill Cowher is not going to bench you even if you licked Warren SappÂs ass on the final drive, but man, have some dignity and take a fucking breather because honestly, our wallets canÂt take it anymore and bookies are dancing in the streets. People in Pittsburgh are infinitely forgiving if you win a Super Bowl, but please, right now you resemble the second coming of Dan McGwire.
Motherfucker, your interception to touchdown ratio is almost two-to one. ThatÂs 11 interceptions to 6 touchdowns! Those numbers are rivaling Rick Mirer for fuckÂs sake. I donÂt want to hear any bullshit about how great you were against Kansas City. That was one fucking game against a club missing its starting quarterback and a head coach  Herman Edwards  so clueless that he forgot that he has possibly the best running back in the NFL until maybe a week ago.
Ben, itÂs time to swallow your pride, kick up your feet and crack a tall cold one until your body heals because you are completely fucking the Steelers and good gambling Americans like John Holmes pounding away at SekaÂs gaping maw.
To steal a line from Perry Farrell, Ben, just admit it.